Home
by starchetti
Summary: Home was where the heart was.


The buzz and noise of human population always grated his nerves. It was terrible, it was pointless. The ludicrous lofty towers, the people bustling about and muttering about time. 'Save time, it's this time, there isn't enough time'; it was utterly idiotic in his view, trying to turn time into a commodity for 'profit'. Time was merely a moving stream that had no beginning nor any end. It just kept going and going; as did the crowds that walked the street. Everything moved in a flow, regardless of how erratic it all seemed. The 'norm' was the supposed man-made flow, assimilating- but never accommodating, people into it. Those who could not be assimilated were considered strange and defective. Like an outdated toy, slowly knocked off the shelves one by one; replaced with the shiny new one. The cycle would go on and on. Those removed could only watch, silently and listlessly. It was times like this, where he became conscious of his own standing. Where the sheer amount of work he took upon himself could not distract him. He became aware that he was like a phantom among the living, an empty shell of a life-form; listlessly watching as the crowds moved on. It was suffocating and numbing. He hated it. It all just grated his nerves.

He always wondered why he would go back to work, despite despising it so. He just wanted to scream in his frustration, but the words were always caught in his throat; silenced by deadlines that needed to be met and documents that had to be typed. The clacking of the monitors keys would always resound in his conscience, it was just another reminder of the human noise he hated. He would work until his back would ache, he would stress himself until his wrists would tremor and shake. It was choleric, the way the dark clouds would rumble over his state. It would fester and fester, only have him grow more brooding and brooding. He gripped his moppy locks in frustration, but he didn't have time to lament. Deadlines were to be met. He was given more work to take home with him.

It was annoying and nerve-wracking to have his boss chew him out again for some miscellaneous error that probably wasn't his fault- ah no, it was probably his fault. Yes, it was his fault. He could only bow his head and chant his apologies. He always wondered why he was never fired. Not that he wanted to be, as he needed this job- his damn salary was already cut as it is; but he just wondered why he was kept. Perhaps as a punching bag to his over-bearing boss. His boss who seemed to hate him. Perhaps Doppo reminded him of the futile efforts that were wasted on existence. He was given another warning for dazing off, his heavy eyes blinking tiredly as he stared at the screen again. He still had miles to go before he could sleep.

Ah, he wanted to sleep. Badly. As the train rattled beneath his feet, he could feel himself growing drowsy with each 'clickety clack!' of the train; slowly slinking towards the heavy blanket of listless dreams and soundless sleep. He, however, was jolted awake by the sound of a child wailing her heart out. He only groaned as he leaned further back into his seat, wishing that this all would be over.

It was hardly close to over, his bitterness doubling as he trudged back to his shared flat in the harsh rain. His suit was drenched, clinging to his thin frame as did his bangs to his temple. A faint shiver ran through him. He couldn't get sick. Not when he had so much to do- so much to do for what? To make money? Money that would be used within a week's time? That was a terrible habit of money. If it wasn't being increased, it would decrease. Much like a bottomless chalice. Drowning and drowning, never dying but never living. It was like the sheet of rain that continuously assaulted him. He just wanted to go home.

What was home? He mused as he silently trudged through the lobby, rain water dripping off his form. The elevator was taking a while, perhaps he should use the stairs. What was home? Home had many definitions. Home was where one lived. But by that standard, he may have called the office his home- considering the sheer amount of time he spent there. Home is where one's family is; where one is apart of a family. His thoughts trailed towards his own family. He didn't dislike them. He did love his family- however, then there came a separate social pressure. It was suffocating, the constant hammering of questions, the demands as to what he was doing with his life. Things such as his income, whether he would be promoted, why was he always alone, do this, do that, then do another thing- He hated that. He didn't call that home. The elevator arrived, supposedly to take him home. But did he have a home? He had a place to live- as in a permanent place to sleep; but, with that standard, then even a hotel could be considered home. He stepped into the elevator, it promised to take him home. But what was home?

He fumbled with his keys for a moment, already weary from the thought of all the work he had to complete. He needed a bath, but did he have time for that? He didn't want to get sick, he should have gotten medicine on his way home. He hoped that whatever cold he would catch would kill him. The jagged edges of the key scraped along the lock, a small 'click!' emitting when it had opened. If only everything else would be so simple. Well, he supposed that everything in life was a lock. If you weren't the right key, you would merely have to wait and wait and wait. You could break into whatever lock you wanted, but that took time, effort, and a cost of morals. He was too meek to cheat, too pathetic to try anything else. He would merely drag along, scraping against cold metal his entire life. His soul was littered with faint scars. Home was where one's wounds would be healed. The door swung open. Was this home?

He expected eerie silence to greet him, a dull darkness that would be illuminated by the harsh glow of his laptop. He expected the cold and morbid reminder of his futile existence to greet him. What he didn't expect was the soft glow of warm light to radiate through the halls, the faint waft of spice and a hint of sweet to fill the air. He was mildly surprised with the quiet humming that echoed from the kitchen; staring like a deer caught in headlights when a familiar blonde peeked through the door way, beaming at his trembling frame. The greeting was deaf to his ears as Hifumi bounded over to him, the soft words of concern were muffled by the static in his conscience. Hifumi was back, and early too. He didn't expect that. He continued to wordlessly gape as his jacket was tugged off, followed by his tie. Hifumi was back- here. Hifumi was- home. He supposed. Home.

It was as if he entered the apartment for the first time- that one bright, sunny day where he moved in with Hifumi. Hifumi bubbled on about all the roommate things they could do, Doppo silent as the blonde would trail on. That time felt like eons ago- it felt so old but relived. He supposed his silent evoked further concern within Hifumi, he could feel the blonde's arms wrap around him and holding him close. Comfort, it mimicked that of a family. But so much better.

"You'll get your clothes wet." Was all Doppo said, his forehead coming to rest against the shelf of Hifumi's shoulder.

He liked how Hifumi smelled, whether it was the cologne from work or just the general musk of him. He liked both, it was comforting- more so than the scent of lavender that Hifumi insisted that he should grace his room with. He said it would help him sleep. Hifumi said nothing in response- aside from a brief bubble of laughter, holding him closer. The humming resumed, the entire home warm with the glow of light and aroma of spice. Even the rain seemed to be gentle, adding on to the ambiance. It was akin to sleep- yet, much better. Not that he would ever confess that out loud. It lulled him, eased off the woes of his day. Everything melting away like a bad dream. Of course, he would have to return to it once more- but he could rest here. He could take a break here. He was safe here, subdued, content and satisfied. He leaned further into the embrace, his eyes sliding shut.

His worries of home had vanished into the radiance of the atmosphere. While he did live in the apartment, he wouldn't call it home. He was right about that. However, he did know what he would call home; his prior confusion eased. Hifumi was home, Hifumi practically teemed with it. While Hifumi was certainly a handful and definitely did deserve better than Doppo, he was home. Hifumi was who he would live with, who held his strongest relationship with, who healed his wounds; a lock he could open with ease- or rather, a lock that was left open for him. Hifumi was home.

Doppo supposed home was where the heart resided.


End file.
